Pain
by toeki
Summary: During a storm, the mistakes of Altairs past come back to haunt him again. He learns that Malik is still suffering as a result of these failures, and his attempt to help is not as useful as he wishes it to be. Friendship fic.


Pain

**This story takes place some years after AC I, when Altair is grandmaster of the order. He has apologized to Malik long ago, and Malik has forgiven, but Altair never has forgiven himself**.

When Altair steps through the door of the assassins bureau, wiping the rain from his face, he immediately knows something is wrong. A pungent smell is filling the room. The grandmaster of the assassins order stops dead, his gaze shifting through the room suspiciously.

There are no traces of a fight, no broken doors and furniture, the smell in the air is not even blood, but still...

Malik´s counter is abandoned.

Carefully, the assassin steps further into the room. He begins to hurry when he sees a foot in a brown leather boot twitching behind the counter. He is behind the desk in no time, and there he finds the source of the smell. The remains of what has been a heavy clay jug are scattered on the floor, and lying in the puddle of the alcoholic liquid it has contained, is Malik. He is curled into a ball, shaking with pain, completely unaware of Altair´s presence. The assassin kneels down, reaching out to examine the man on the floor. When Altair touches his shoulder, Malik howls. His second-in-command is casting him a sideways glance, only his eyes moving. "Go away," he coughs between clenched teeth.

"Malik, are you injured?" In spite of his usual unemotional tone,the assassin sounds concerned this time.

"Its nothing." The strain in Malik´s voice contradicts his words.

"So you´re lying behind your desk, unable to move, because of nothing.",Altair responds flatly.

Malik glares at the grandmaster angrily. "Damn novice... my arm.", he hisses.

Altair gently traces the length of Malik´s right arm, looking for injuries.

"It´s the **other** arm, moron," Malik snarls, his voice filled with painful tension.

Now the grandmaster is startled. "But your left arm is..."

"Yeah, I know pretty well it is not even existent, so get yourself out of here and leave me alone."

Altair is completely taken aback, trying to digest this information.

He never expected it was possible to feel pain in an arm that is not there any more. Of course he has heard stories from crippled assassins, but he´s always disposed it as the whining of old men searching for attention.

`There seems to be some truth in these tales´, he thinks, looking at Malik, who is clutching the stomp of his left arm with his remaining hand by now, digging the fingers deep into the flesh.

Altair knows Malik since he was a boy, he has seen him taking serious injury many times. Malik is not easy to shake. In fact he is able to endure torture, like getting every single finger broken, without even flinching. So when the toughest assassin Altair knows is lying on the floor, rigid with pain, it has to be serious, really serious.

"Can I help? Get you some medicine, or...?"

Then everything clicks into place. Malik has been trying to drink the alcohol in the clay jug to alleviate his pain, but has failed to do so when the pain became so overwhelming he couldn´t stable his grip any more.

"Do you have some more alcohol here?"

"Wine. Shelf in the back room.", the rafiq coughs.

Altair rummages around in the back room, coming back with the wine. He pours the liquid into the jar standing on the counter. Then he puts Malik upright. The rafiq is breathing heavily. Altair brings the jar to the rafiq´s lips. Malik gulps down the liquid greedily. The assassin refills the jar, repeating the process. It takes five fills and half an hour until the effect of the alcohol shows and Malik relaxes a little.

The assassin waits until the rafiq is standing upright again, holding on to the counter for support.

Altair is ready to turn on his heels and leave. He assumes Malik can manage on his own now. The dai surely doesn´t want him anywhere near when he is well enough to realize that Altair has seen him _weak._ But Malik´s gaze keeps him in place. The grandmaster can see resignation in the dark eyes of the dai.

"It´s not over yet", Malik says, his voice calm as he states the fact. Altair doesn´t comprehend until he hears the clap of thunder and sees Malik falling forwards, screaming in agony, like the lightning and thunder have hit _him_.

The master assassin catches the dai before he hits the floor.

oOo

Altairs expression tightens when he realizes that he can do nothing. This is not some foe he can fight and kill, not something he can cure with medicine alone. It is happening in Malik´s _head_. Altair can neither fight nor run away, so he does the only thing he can think of.

He stays.

He seats himself on the floor, back against the wood of the counter, Malik in his lap.

Outwaiting the storm turns out to be a torture for both of them. The rafiq curls into a trembling ball, biting on his fingers to suppress the screams that come with every wave of pain. Altair has to gather all his willpower not to twitch every time Malik tenses with agony.

The master assassin´s expression does not move. Not when Malik´s breathing becomes more and more ragged, not even when Malik starts throwing curses and insults at him. He closes his eyes and lets the strained voice wash over him.

´_Malik is right_´, he thinks. Right to call him arrogant, right to call him reckless, right to call him a coward for leaving him and Kadar alone in Solomon´s temple, right to call him responsible for this, for the state Malik is in now... He does not object when the trembling dai starts to point out all failures and moral lapses of the past to him in a hoarse and breaking voice. The faint `_But i have changed since then´_ dies in Altair´s throat when he realizes that Malik´s eyes are distant, glazed with tears and pain and memories, that he isn´t able to hear him.

Another clap of thunder, another wave of pain, and Malik arches his back, tilts his head back and bites hard onto his lips.

Altair can smell copper from the other man´s lips and fingers. The assassin grips the rafiq´s wrist, seeing that his friend has bitten almost down to the bone. Blood stains the white of Altair´s robes. He pulls his friend closer. One hand is still gripping the wrist to prevent Malik from harming himself even more, the other hand touches the back of Malik´s head, pressing the face of the other man into is own shoulder.

Altair barely flinches when he feels the bite, feels the dai´s teeth drawing blood even through all the layers of fabric.

The shoulder will bruise, but Altair couldn´t care less. He is able to share at least some of his friend´s pain now, can feel the relief it brings to Malik as well as his own, because in spite of emotions, bodily injury is something he can deal with.

oOo

The sound of rain and thunder becomes more distant and finally fades completely.

It is over.

Malik is sobbing faintly into Altair´s shoulder, completely unaware of his surroundings. The grandmaster clenches his teeth, hoping Malik does not look up into his face, because by now it is mirroring the rafiq´s pain.

But Malik doesn´t. He keeps leaning into Altair´s embrace. The other man says nothing, just strokes through the black mess of Malik´s hair clumsily, until the sobbing stops.

The even breath tells him that Malik is asleep, but Altair is not relieved. A dreadful realization has hit him. _Every thunderstorm, every rain since Solomon´s temple has been like this for Malik_, and he, calling himself Malik´s friend, has not noticed it for years.

Memories are playing in his head. Solomons temple, a failure he had thought long forgiven, though not forgotten. Solomon´s temple. A failure he has made years ago, but his friend is still suffering because of it, and Altair _knows_ he is responsible.

He watches the sleeping rafiq, the exhausted face, the tears that have not dried yet. He buries his face into the black strands of hair.

Altair wishes he could change the past, wishes Malik was not the one to pay for _his _mistakes.

Altair is mumbling soft apologies into Malik´s hair, countless variations of `_I´m sorry_´, but no one can hear it, not even Malik.

He never felt so guilty before.


End file.
